Découvrez votre prochain livre préféré

Devenez membre aujourd'hui et lisez gratuitement pendant 30 jours
Secret Historian: The Life and Times of Samuel Steward, Professor, Tattoo Artist, and Sexual Renegade

Secret Historian: The Life and Times of Samuel Steward, Professor, Tattoo Artist, and Sexual Renegade

Lire l'aperçu

Secret Historian: The Life and Times of Samuel Steward, Professor, Tattoo Artist, and Sexual Renegade

4.5/5 (9 évaluations)
1,056 pages
10 heures
Aug 17, 2010


2010 National Book Award Finalist for Nonfiction

Drawn from the secret, never-before-seen diaries, journals, and sexual records of the novelist, poet, and university professor Samuel M. Steward, Secret Historian is a sensational reconstruction of one of the more extraordinary hidden lives of the twentieth century. An intimate friend of Gertrude Stein, Alice B. Toklas, and Thornton Wilder, Steward maintained a secret sex life from childhood on, and documented these experiences in brilliantly vivid (and often very funny) detail.

After leaving the world of academe to become Phil Sparrow, a tattoo artist on Chicago's notorious South State Street, Steward worked closely with Alfred Kinsey on his landmark sex research. During the early 1960s, Steward changed his name and identity once again, this time to write exceptionally literate, upbeat pro-homosexual pornography under the name of Phil Andros.

Until today he has been known only as Phil Sparrow—but an extraordinary archive of his papers, lost since his death in 1993, has provided Justin Spring with the material for an exceptionally compassionate and brilliantly illuminating life-and-times biography. More than merely the story of one remarkable man, Secret Historian is a moving portrait of homosexual life long before Stonewall and gay liberation.

Aug 17, 2010

À propos de l'auteur

Justin Spring is a writer specializing in twentieth-century American art and culture, and the author of many monographs, catalogs, museum publications, and books, including Secret Historian: The Life and Times of Samuel Steward, Professor, Tattoo Artist, and Sexual Renegade and Fairfield Porter: A Life in Art and Paul Cadmus: The Male Nude.

Lié à Secret Historian

Livres associé
Articles associés

À l'intérieur du livre

Meilleures citations

  • But in its oddball way it posited an alternate (if later) vision of the Beat generation, one featuring a comic hero who was both an articulate social dropout and a well-adjusted sexual nonconformist.

  • I have said that I do not consider my homosexuality the most important fact in my life. I am an invert but I am also ambitious.

  • Whether or not his work as Phil Andros ever achieved any sort of recognition, he was at last creating fiction that gave his life meaning.

  • Secondly, I have learned not to look upon every good looking boy I meet as a possible lover.

  • I fell in love, really in love—for the first time in my life.

Aperçu du livre

Secret Historian - Justin Spring

Also by Justin Spring

Fairfield Porter: A Life in Art

Paul Cadmus: The Male Nude



The Life and Times of SAMUEL STEWARD, Professor, Tattoo Artist, and Sexual Renegade


Farrar, Straus and Giroux

New York

…the question of being important inside in one…

—Gertrude Stein to Samuel Steward, letter of January 12, 1938



1. Wild—Hog Wild

2. Teres Atque Rotundus

3. The Chicago Novel

4. The navy has always had an attraction for me

5. Sobriety and After

6. Kinsey and Company

7. Living in Dreams

8. Writing Lynes

9. A kind of obscene diary, actually

10. Mr. Chips of the Tattoo World

11. The Kothmann Affair

12. The Parting

13. Pleasure doesn’t really make one happy

14. Kris and Kreis

15. Payments to hustlers

16. Masters and Slaves

17. Phil Andros, $TUD

18. A New Life in Oakland

19. From the brow of Zeus

20. Dear Sammy

21. Porte after stormie seas

Afterword: The Steward Papers


Selected Bibliography




Samuel M. Steward—a poet, novelist, and university professor who left the world of higher education to become a sex researcher, skid-row tattoo artist, and pornographer—may seem at first an odd candidate for a biography, for he is practically unknown and nearly all his writing is out of print.

I first ran across Steward’s name in the gay pulp fiction archive and database at the John Hay Special Collections Library at Brown University, where I had gone to research the social and literary challenges that a particular group of artists and writers had faced during the still largely undocumented years before gay liberation. As a biographer and art historian, I knew only a little about pulp fiction before visiting Brown, and was unaware of how many of these cheap paperbacks of the 1950s and ’60s had described the secret world of American homosexuals. But pulp fiction writers had been among the first to chronicle the homosexual subculture for the popular reading public, skirting the stringent antiobscenity laws of the time by describing the homosexual illness in ways that were melodramatic and grotesque. While I was at first titillated by the lurid cover illustrations and outrageous titles I found in the archive—Flight into Sodomy, Kept Boy, and Naked to the Night all looked like great fun—the books themselves quickly proved just the opposite: they were, for the most part, badly written tales of loneliness, alcohol, and psychic defeat, often concluding in suicide or murder (or both).

While browsing through these depressing paperbacks, I recalled a very different series of novels and stories I had come across a decade earlier at A Different Light bookstore. Erotic comedies, they had chronicled the adventures of a hustler named Phil Andros, an improbably literate Ohio State University graduate turned leather-jacketed hustler. Phil lived a happy-go-lucky life, for his general interest in human nature made each of his paid sexual encounters a sort of learning experience. The tone of the Phil Andros books had been resolutely sex-affirmative, despite the dark, antihomosexual atmosphere of the times they had described; Phil liked sex—and was good at it—and had apparently become a hustler to have as much of it as possible.

The Phil Andros books I had purchased (seven titles all told) had been reissued versions of previously published books. They were published in the early 1980s by a house called Perineum Press, and their cover illustrations featured drawings—presumably of Phil Andros—by Touko Laaksonen/Tom of Finland, an erotic illustrator who had begun his career in the mid-1950s but achieved his greatest popularity nearly twenty years later. The Perineum edition, despite its 1980s publication, held no detailed information about the original printings of the books, nor did it explain what connection Phil Andros had (if any) with Tom of Finland; nor did it give the real name of the author—only the pseudonym Phil Andros. I remained puzzled about these literate, well-written social comedies featuring detailed descriptions of men having sex with men for the better part of a decade; as a result, the novels lingered on my bookshelf, and occasionally I shared them with fellow writers who took an interest in such things. When a Pulitzer Prize–winning playwright returned one to me, she observed that it was the happiest, most well-adjusted pornography she had ever read.

Though most of the Phil Andros novels and stories were set in the late 1950s and early ’60s, I soon learned from Brown’s pulp fiction database that they had originally been published as paperbacks starting in 1970. (Only the story collection $TUD had been published in hardcover, by a house called Guild Press in 1966.) As for the pseudonymous Phil Andros: he had published under many other names as well—Donald Bishop, Thomas Cave, John McAndrews, Phil Sparrow, Philip Sparrow, Ward Stames, D.O.C., Ted Kramer, and Biff Thomas, among others—but his real name was Samuel M. Steward. I subsequently discovered that Steward had begun his career as a poet, literary novelist, and short story writer. He published three significant nonfiction books in his later years, however: Bad Boys and Tough Tattoos, a social history of American tattooing; Dear Sammy: Letters from Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas, a memoir of his friendship with the two great literary women; and finally Chapters from an Autobiography, a modest memoir of his own life and times.

Several months later, while writing a book on the artist Paul Cadmus, I found a group of letters from Steward in the Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscripts Library at Yale. The letters amazed and delighted me, for they were highly risqué and often very funny. Through them I discovered that Steward had traveled frequently to Paris, that he had worked with Alfred Kinsey’s Institute for Sex Research, that he had kept a tattoo parlor on Chicago’s South State Street, and that he had been the single most important American contributor to the vanguard European homophile publication Der Kreis.

My curiosity aroused, I subsequently read several biographies of Kinsey, from which I learned that Kinsey had been fascinated by Steward’s lifelong project of documenting his sex life in every particular. Upon being interviewed by Kinsey in late 1949, Steward had agreed to share this secret documentation. His later contributions to the Kinsey archive included drawings, photographs, sexual paraphernalia, homemade erotic decorative objects, and—most important—a vast compilation of numerical data and written material, including correspondence, fiction, personal narratives, diaries, and journals.

In his extraordinary openness about his sexuality, Steward was quite the opposite of nearly all the homosexual artists and writers I had been researching. Even Paul Cadmus, who had launched his career through scandalous depictions of homosexuality in his paintings, had been enormously careful about sharing the details of his personal life, and had left behind few written records of it for posterity. Likewise, most of the artists and writers of Steward’s generation had either concealed any references to their homosexuality in their private writings and correspondence, or else rigorously edited it out in the years that followed. As a result, firsthand accounts of homosexual lives during the middle years of the twentieth century have remained underchronicled. As I considered this gap in available information, Steward’s papers began to seem increasingly rare, valuable, and interesting to me.

But what had become of them? Though Steward had died in 1993, few of his papers had entered public collections. Despite his close association with Kinsey, the library at the Kinsey Institute listed only a few books by Steward in its online database, which made no mention whatsoever of his papers, artworks, or data. Yale had a few of his letters, and so, too, did Berkeley, thanks mostly to Steward’s friendships with Gertrude Stein and Alice Toklas. There were also two boxes of his papers at Boston University’s special collections library. But on the basis of what I subsequently found there—most of it dating from the 1980s—I sensed there once had been more. The question, now, was whether it still existed.

After tracking down a manuscripts dealer in Berkeley who owned some artwork by Steward, I came up with two possible addresses for his executor, but no phone number, and was also told he might have either died or moved away. I wrote to him at the addresses I had been given, but received nothing back. Several months later, though, my phone rang in New York. It was the executor; he was in town on a brief visit, was I possibly free to meet in the next hour or so? I was; he came by. After a long and friendly conversation, he invited me to come visit him in San Francisco—for, as he then revealed, he had been keeping Steward’s papers in his attic for nearly a decade.

Only when I turned up on his doorstep a month or so later, however, did the executor let me know the extent of his holdings. Steward’s effects filled nearly the whole of his attic. I spent the days that followed unpacking and photographing this enormous trove of objects, papers, drawings, photographs, manuscripts, home furnishings, and sexual paraphernalia—sensing, as I did so, that among this vast and bewildering collection I had found one of the more sensational secret lives of the twentieth century.

In the years that followed, I have come to know my subject as a complicated man of many identities. Among them are Samuel M. Steward, the mild-mannered poet, literary novelist, and professor of English literature at a Catholic university in Chicago; Sammy Steward, adoring young friend and fan of Gertrude Stein, Alice B. Toklas, and Thornton Wilder; Thomas Cave, spiritual seeker; Sam Steward, unofficial sex researcher for Alfred Kinsey’s Institute for Sex Research; Phil Sparrow, streetwise Chicago tattoo artist; Phil and Philip von Chicago, homoerotic illustrator; Ward Stames, homophile journalist; Doc Sparrow, official tattoo artist of the Oakland Hells Angels motorcycle gang; and, finally, Phil Andros, the homophile pulp pornographer who described the sexual underground of the American 1950s with passion, good humor, and charm. Steward’s journals, letters, memoirs, diaries, and archive of published materials brought all these various identities together into one man.

While Steward’s various writings were introspective, he was far from solipsistic. In fact, quite the opposite: his writings evoked the world in which he moved more vividly than any anthropologist or social historian I had ever read. Steward was indeed a born observer, and as a result, he described the world around him with extraordinary clarity and empathy. Like most diarists and record keepers, however, his first concern was with himself and his inner life.

Starting with the vast amount of primary source material I discovered in that San Francisco attic, and then continuing my research at a number of archival collections around the United States, I have worked for nearly a decade to combine Steward’s various unpublished memoirs, fiction, journalism, letters, journals, diaries, artwork, photography, and sexual records into one single, detailed story of a man who literally spent his entire life pondering the nature of his sexual identity even as he devoted the better part of it to sexual activity. My touchstone, throughout, has been his Stud File, a whimsically annotated and cross-referenced 746-card card catalog in which Steward documented his sex life in its entirety from the years 1924 through 1974. I have also drawn extensively upon his neatly typed, thousand-page, single-spaced confessional journal, a document that he created at Alfred Kinsey’s specific request. This journal is not only vastly entertaining, but also rich in specific descriptions of people, places, and activities that have otherwise gone largely undocumented in our culture. Perhaps in years to come it will find publication in its own right, for it is both an extraordinary social document and an oddly entertaining intimate personal record.

That Steward could have had the many sexual experiences he described so thoroughly in his Phil Andros fiction, his homophile reportage, his journals, his artwork, and his Stud File seemed to me at the outset of my research hardly possible. But because he kept such complete (and in many instances DNA-verifiable) records of his myriad sexual contacts, my connection of events in his private life to events in his writing is the opposite of speculative. As a result, I consider this biography in many ways a completion of his own life’s work: that is, a full and thoughtful account of one man’s highly sexual life, as carefully documented as possible, from birth to death.

Steward’s many forms of self-documentation now seem to me, in retrospect, a single, lifelong body of work through which he hoped to demystify homosexuality for generations to come. As a young man Steward had hoped to establish himself as a popular novelist, but by his early forties he realized he would not be able to do so without censoring, condemning, and pathologizing his own homosexuality to suit the expectations of his publishers. And so instead, he decided to write a secret history—one that was playfully cross-referenced, illustrated, and footnoted—telling the absolute truth about his sex life in every particular and detail. Doing so would, he hoped, further the cause of Kinsey’s sex research. But the project was primarily undertaken for himself; it was, in fact, his great consolation in a life that was otherwise characterized by constant disappointment, discouragement, isolation, and rejection. Following Steward’s whimsical-serious example, I have attempted to write a biography that is similarly playful in its cross-references, illustrations, and footnotes, and at the same time similarly responsible in its commitment to sexual and emotional truth. Though the story is not without darkness—for it is, in many ways, a story of obsession, isolation, and failure—I have nonetheless attempted to tell it just as Steward might have: with a minimum of moralizing, and the lightest possible touch.

Author’s Note

Steward was careful throughout his life to respect the sexual privacy of others. In writing his biography I have attempted to be similarly respectful by creating pseudonyms for nearly all those living individuals included in the biography whom Steward discussed intimately in his diaries, journals, correspondence, and Stud File. In instances where Steward created his own pseudonyms for real-life intimate acquaintances in order to include them in nonfiction works that he published during his lifetime, I have used Steward’s pseudonyms rather than creating new ones. A small number of Steward’s surviving intimate friends have welcomed my inclusion of their names in this book, and in these instances I have used their real names in preference to pseudonyms. For the most part, however, readers of this biography should assume that all the names given for Steward’s sexual contacts are not the individuals’ real names, but rather pseudonyms, and also that all those acquaintances of Steward’s whose personal lives he discussed in an intimate manner have also been given pseudonyms.



Wild—Hog Wild

Samuel Morris Steward was born July 23, 1909, in Woodsfield, the seat of Monroe County in southeastern Ohio, a county bordering on Appalachia, and in many ways just as impoverished as that region. His modest, small-town beginnings are important to an understanding of the man he later became, for his plainspoken humor and openness to all things sexual are surely related to his country roots. At the same time, his lifelong preoccupation with the nature of his homosexuality can be seen as a direct response to the stern and austere Puritanism of my Methodist maiden aunts.

Outside accounts of Steward’s early life are basically nonexistent, and he himself wrote of it only in passing; those few sentimental memories he retained of his childhood—whether shared in letters to his sister, or else recounted in his journals or unpublished memoirs—seem to have made him too sad to dwell on it for long. And indeed he had a painful early life. His academically brilliant mother had died of an intestinal obstruction when he was only six, and his father, who had both drug and alcohol addictions, was essentially unable to care for either Steward or his baby sister. As a result, Steward grew up in a boardinghouse run by his mother’s sister and two stepsisters. These three older spinsters—Elizabeth Rose and Minnie Rose, and their half sister Amy Morris—spent most of their day cooking and serving, making beds and washing, and hoeing in the garden behind the house when there was time for it.

The Morris, Rose, and Steward families had resided in the Woodsfield area for generations, and were well established in the professional class; even Steward’s father, despite his drinking and drug problems, had served for a time as Monroe County’s deputy auditor, and despite his multiple addictions taught a weekly Methodist Bible class for more than twenty years. Steward’s paternal grandfather, meanwhile, was a respected country doctor. All of Steward’s family on his deceased mother’s side were teetotalers as well as devout Methodists, and the church literally loomed large in their lives, for the town’s imposing redbrick church stood just across the street from the boardinghouse. The town had no Catholics, and the one black who had attempted to settle there had been run out of town on a rail. As a result, Steward grew up seeing the world as basically divided between those who devoted their lives to Protestant churchgoing and Christian good works (such as his aunts and maternal grandparents), and those who had, for whatever reason, fallen away.

Faced both with the death of his mother and the improvidential absence of his father, the six-year-old Steward might well have withdrawn into grief or shocked stupor. But with the resilience of a child, he did just the opposite, dedicating himself energetically to becoming a highly sympathetic companion to the work-worn aunts who had taken him in. By stepping away from his own feelings and concerning himself primarily with the management and care of others, he was insuring he would not once again be discarded, and in so doing he was also setting the pattern for his later life. But as a result he also grew up feeling very much an outsider, and relatively at a distance from his own feelings and impulses, for he naturally had a great deal of grief and sadness about his own life situation. His aunts seemed not to notice, however, for they had any number of problems and concerns of their own, and moreover they themselves were not very happy people. Worn down by endless amounts of domestic work and by constant money worries, they seem to have lavished most of the joy and attention they had on Steward’s very beautiful baby sister. Steward was after all a boy, and seemed relatively capable of taking care of himself. None of the three aunts had much understanding of males: after all, none of them had married or had children or even had brothers. As adult women living in a home owned by aged parents, their own lives were, in a very real sense, a surrender to womanly duty: their personal frustrations and domestic claustrophobia were something they accepted as their lot. These were the three adults who populated Steward’s childhood—stern, comfortless, deeply religious women who could not quite understand him or his ways, and yet whom he felt an urgent, almost desperate need to comfort, accommodate, and appease.

Out of the double loss of his mother and father—one loss permanent and abrupt, the other ongoing and perpetually inconclusive—Steward seems to have accepted from a very early moment that his life’s essential condition would be one of loneliness and exclusion. Deprived of parental love and recognition, he would grow up expecting very little love from others. Likewise, having experienced very little touching, warmth, or affection as a child, he would eventually find that prolonged physical intimacy made him extremely uncomfortable, and that those who expected the same from him were destined for disappointment. He would grow up to be a very sociable man, highly skilled at managing and seducing others, but unable to cope with everyday closeness. As a boy, he did his best to fit in, but at the same time he spent a good deal of time by himself. His preference for solitude eventually led this gifted young boy to develop a rich private fantasy life, one in which he thought of himself as someone special, separate, and apart.

Steward was very intelligent, like his mother, and he worked very hard in school. His aunts had high expectations for him, for although they were stuck in the boardinghouse, they wanted something better for him, and also for his sister. They saw to it that he earned top grades, kept fastidiously clean, had perfect manners, and in general did everything right. Wanting so much to please and amuse his aunts, Steward not only worked hard at his studies but also quickly mastered the piano, and soon specialized in showy little pieces that he picked out specifically to delight them. They, in turn, made a great fuss about his looks, which were delicate and refined. In an early set of photographs, he is beautifully turned out in a Little Lord Fauntleroy suit featuring velvet breeches, a matching jacket, and a delicate round white collar. In many ways, he seemed like a perfect little doll.

Whatever ambivalence Steward may have felt about his childhood in later life, he never denied the goodness of his aunts, or their love of him, or the many great sacrifices they made on his behalf. And, in fact, he would portray them quite tenderly in his first literary novel. But he was also exhausted by them—for the perfect, doll-like, self-contained little man they so much wanted him to be was very far from the complicated, fallible, and emotionally deprived young boy that he was, or the troubled teen he eventually became.

Because of his extraordinary academic achievements, Steward seems to have felt from a very early moment that the great awareness of difference he had from the people around him was primarily due to his intelligence. And indeed he was very intelligent: brilliant not only at all his school subjects, but also at music, amateur dramatics, and drawing. Among these many activities, though, he found his greatest pleasure in reading and writing, for through them he began to imagine himself in the outside world. From his earliest days Steward read everything he could lay his hands on: popular fiction, poetry, and the great classics of Western literature. He borrowed vast numbers of books from the local library, and also purchased books and magazines by mail. Because silent films were shown weekly in town, Steward became a great fan of film and stage celebrities—men and women whose lives and careers seemed so real to him in the pages of Photoplay that he began to write them letters. Much to his amazement, several wrote back. In this way, reading and writing served from earliest childhood to create for Steward an intimate conduit to the world of his dreams and fantasies—a world full of glamorous and fascinating people so very different from the simple folk of Woodsfield. Before long Steward was writing to nearly every celebrity he could think of—authors, musicians, and film stars—and assiduously collecting and cataloging their autographs and letters. He cherished their responses to him as proof positive of his own specialness. Through his collection of celebrity letters and autographs, he had created a world in which he stood at the absolute center.

In his unpublished memoirs, Steward makes clear that while he spent many of his leisure hours reading and writing and chasing down autographs, he also spent a good deal of time playing with other boys and girls. He may have been thought of by his contemporaries as different because of his bookishness, but he was always treated with respect. The facility with which he handled nearly everyone around him—from his aunts to his teachers to his fellow high school students—suggests that Steward had a talent for communication. He was by no means a leader, but by the time he reached high school (and the emotional and physical changes that come with the onset of puberty), he was well known for playing any number of sly pranks and practical jokes. Duplicity was something in which, for whatever reason, he took an enormous and childlike delight: being bad, misbehaving, and crossing the line between acceptable and unacceptable behavior were in many ways central to his character from boyhood onward. This love of duplicity became even stronger when Steward discovered sex.

Growing up under the watchful eyes of spinsters, Steward had known that sex was wrong long before he knew what it was. He later remembered, only half jokingly, that in my sheltered little-boy Methodist way, the talk [of sex] caused me much agony. The slightest brushing of my hand against my penis was not only a religious sin, but would lead to blindness and pimples, kidney disease, bed-wetting, stooped shoulders, insomnia, weight loss, fatigue, stomach trouble, impotence, genital cancer, and ulcers. In fact, he so deeply internalized his aunts’ great fear of sexual filth that the unintentional discovery that his foreskin could retract (and the sudden sight of his filth-encrusted glans) shocked him so deeply that he passed out cold.

Not surprisingly, then, Steward experienced a series of significant physical and emotional upsets as his body entered puberty. Sexual thoughts and desires began to surface within him despite his best efforts to exclude them from consciousness. It was at roughly this time that he began to engage in various forms of aggression and bad behavior, including pranks and practical jokes. As a result, he wrote, The meek mild little mama’s boy, the potential sissy, may have remained that on the outside, but inside there was a curious change to a twelve-year-old devil.

He began to do a lot of spying and eavesdropping. Steward’s growing curiosity about other people’s private lives and personal habits presumably led him first to peep through the many keyholes available to him in his aunts’ boardinghouse. There he could watch and listen to whatever the various male lodgers might be getting up to in their rooms. He also began to spy on various other people throughout Woodsfield, including a girl who lived next door. In one of his earliest surviving short stories, written while still a preadolescent, Steward describes spying on a teenage boy and girl who have gone skinny-dipping together; while he senses something momentous is about to happen between them, he does not yet know what it is.

Steward’s first introduction to sexual self-pleasure came about through instruction by another boy in the practice of masturbation. He achieved orgasm some time later, in private. Some time after this first orgasm, Steward began to realize that he was sexually excited by other boys. While he found the realization troubling, he also seems to have realized in short order that he could do nothing about it—just as, indeed, he could do nothing to control his interest in sex. As he later observed, ‘Choice’ had no part in [my sexual identity.] When I discovered what I wanted [sexually], every corpuscle, every instinct I had, drove me unerringly in that direction.

Steward later wrote that he could recall no real concern among the adult population of Woodsfield about the sex games he and the other boys in town sometimes played, at least insofar as these games might potentially cause them to develop into homosexuals. He credited this lack of concern to a simple, widespread disinclination to discuss sexuality in general, and on top of that, an almost complete, culture-wide ignorance about the existence of homosexuality:

Midwest American views on homosexuality in the 1920s were very quaint, and were based on the assumption that all people raised in civilized Christian countries knew better than to fall in love with, or bed, persons of the same sex. Knowing better, then, the Fundamentalist mind made two breathtaking leaps of illogic: people did not do such things, and therefore such things must be nonexistent. This kind of thinking protected us all during the 1920s and 30s. Though one might be teased for being a sissy, no one could believe that any person actually engaged in the abominable sin. We lived under the shadow and cover of such naiveté.

Thus while Steward recalled many injunctions against sin in his religious upbringing—both in church and at home—he recalled no specific early injunctions against homosexuality. Through his own investigations, however, Steward soon ascertained that sexual acts between men were not only strictly illegal in Ohio, but also punishable by incarceration. In his unpublished memoirs, he concludes the story of his first non-masturbatory sexual experience with another boy—a big guy football player who had convinced him to engage in an act of oral sex that was over in less than two minutes—by going on to note that the punishment for such activities in Ohio at that moment so far exceeded the crime as to make the whole situation absurd: So began my criminal life, then punishable by the laws of the state of Ohio—at that time—by about twenty years of imprisonment, I guess. Each time. Total incarceration in Ohio: between five and six thousand years.

Steward had enjoyed the encounter with the football player, and as a result, he subsequently provoked similar encounters with other (usually older, better developed) boys in locations all over Woodsfield: in the town graveyard, in a neighbor’s attic, in the courthouse bell tower, and even in the same room at the Methodist church where his father taught his Sunday Bible class. Since Steward usually proposed and initiated these activities, he felt no sense of coercion by the older boys. Rather, he considered himself unique:

I figgered I was put in that town just to bring pleasure to the guys I admired…In that small (about 350 students) high school, the word got around quickly enough, and (I think) they all came to look on me as…a dandy substitute for their girls…I felt different from those boys—superior in a way, because I could give them something they wanted (and needed?)…I thought I was the only one, and grew somewhat proud that I could satisfy these boys, most of whom I looked up to and admired because they were my adolescent heroes. [And] they [in turn] treated me with a funny kind of respect, as if they knew that if they made me mad, they wouldn’t get any more…I was not patronized or made fun of. In those far-gone days, everything seemed natural.

Even so, these new activities made Steward ever more clearly an outsider. To his teachers and his aunts he may well have seemed a handsome young man of great academic promise, but to himself—and among the boys with whom he was active—he was not only a rebel (a boy who stole from the cash register in his uncle’s store, got drunk on stolen wine, and once even threw a pumpkin through the window of the high school principal’s house), but also an oddity (because he was a boy who enjoyed pleasuring other boys sexually, and seemed to have no shame about doing so). To Steward, who had basically already accepted that he would never quite fit in, his sexual activities were just another aspect of his teenage rebellion. With puberty, he later observed, the birth of desire had taken place in me, and the patterns that I needed to survive were firmly imprinted by the time I left the town [of Woodsfield]: concealment and pretense, duplicity, a guise of wide-eyed innocence—and a kind of ‘passive aggression’ [unusual] in such a shy-seeming young man.

Of course, Steward was hardly alone in adopting such a strategy; most homosexual young men of his generation found themselves facing a similar crisis of disconnection from the society around them as they became sexually active. Just as the orphaned and rejected Jean Genet (Steward’s exact contemporary) would note that through homosexuality, violent crime, and thievery he had resolutely rejected a world which had rejected me, Steward took a similar view of his departure from the upstanding life into which he had been born, and toward which his aunts had so earnestly propelled him:

The personality which has been kept repressed, as mine had been by the strict Methodist upbringing my aunts had given me, and kept within the strictest lines and boundaries, really goes wild—hog wild—when it finally breaks away. And although I was still living within the family walls, the rebellious spirit was growing daily stronger…I had to be free.

Steward’s ability to think clearly and without too much anxiety or self-blame about his sexual activities (or at least to view them with a certain degree of humorous detachment, and to recognize them not as aberrant behaviors, but rather as aspects of an essential self that absolutely had to find expression) is something he later credited to an extraordinary boyhood find: a copy of Havelock Ellis’s Studies in the Psychology of Sex, Volume II: Sexual Inversion. Steward had serendipitiously discovered the book under a bed in the boardinghouse, where a traveling salesman, after stealing it from the restricted section of an Ohio library, had subsequently left it behind.

A voracious reader even in his early teens, Steward had already special-ordered Freud’s Beyond the Pleasure Principle and The Interpretation of Dreams through the Woodsfield confectioner by the time he found the Ellis volume. But the latter book was a unique godsend, for this landmark of early-twentieth-century sex research was particularly sympathetic toward sexual inverts and sexual inversion—that is, to homosexuals and to homosexuality. The book immediately set Steward’s mind at ease about just who and what he was, and proved a welcome alternative to the vague but terrifying sermons he had heard all through childhood about sexual sin. Thanks to Ellis, not only did I discover that I was not insane or alone in a world of heteros—but I [also] learned many new things to do. I made a secret hiding place for the book under the attic stairs, and read and read and read. Thus I became an expert in the field of [sex] theory (by the time I finished the book I probably knew more about sex than anyone else in the county) and then began to make practical applications of this vast storehouse of material.

Steward affects nonchalance about his sexual identity in his memoirs, and doubtless he was nonchalant about it for much of the time. But he also faced a very difficult moment of self-recognition in mid-adolescence, as he realized that what he was getting up to with other boys was simply not acceptable. The realization became manifest in an incident involving, of all people, his father.

Steward’s father had been largely absent throughout his childhood; during that time, Samuel Vernon Steward’s brief, rare visits to the boardinghouse were almost always painful ones, for his inability (or unwillingness) to provide for his children had complicated the lives of Steward’s aunts considerably, and they resented him. They also resented his involvement with other women, since they felt he ought to have remained faithful to the memory of their sister. His ongoing dependence on drugs and alcohol, meanwhile, had led him to ignore both the emotional and the financial needs of his children.

The son of a country doctor, he had dabbled with drugs since boyhood. He had obtained virtually unlimited access to drugs as a young adult by securing a pharmacist’s license through the study of pharmacy in college. His subsequent experiments had led him to become a frequently relapsing opium addict* who also dabbled largely in [other] drugs, especially laudanum and morphine. Though in many ways a weak man, he was capable of unexpected violence; one of Steward’s few early childhood memories was of watching his father hit his mother hard across the face, merely for having dropped and broken his bottle of ketchup.

In later life, Steward kept no photographs of his father, only a couple of inconsequential letters and a small book of occasional speeches. The contents of these documents suggest he was a man inclined to sanctimony. The fact that he went on to spend twenty years teaching a Sunday Bible class at the church across the street from the boardinghouse where his children were growing up without his financial support suggests that there was much about him that Steward might justifiably have disliked.

According to Steward, his relationship with his father worsened after the two were tested for their IQ:

The propagandizing of my aunts against whomever [my father] looked upon as a possible new bride had affected me; they somehow felt that he should remain true all his life to the memory of my mother [and so did I]. An additional strain was that I had earned my own way during the high school years, since with his meager salary he could not support either myself or my sister. And finally, the superintendent of schools had given both my father and myself the same IQ test—which had just then been invented. When the weighting of the scores was adjusted for our ages, it was discovered that my result topped his. I do not believe he ever forgave me, and was jealous of that small detail the rest of his life; he often referred to it, but never in my hearing.

The final break between father and son came after. Steward wrote a sexually suggestive note to a handsome young traveling salesman at the boardinghouse, and the salesman, outraged, subsequently gave the note to the proprietor of the town’s only restaurant, thereby making the proposition—and the proof of it—town-wide public knowledge. Publicly shamed by his son, Samuel Vernon Steward drove the boy out to the countryside to discuss the matter in the privacy of his car. There, as Steward later recalled, his father had bawled him out:

I want to know what the hell a son of mine is doing writing love letters to another man.

I think, I said, drawing on my new vocabulary from Havelock Ellis, that I am homosexual.

…Don’t give me any of your smartaleck high school rhetoric! He bellowed…[And] that was the way the conversation went on for about a half hour. When I saw that he wanted to believe that I had not actually sinned, the game became fairly easy…I pretended to be chastened, to be horror-struck at the enormity of [what I had proposed to the salesman]…I worked it to the hilt, falling in easily with his suggestion that perhaps I should go to see a professional whore—that such an experience might start me on a heterosexual (he said normal) path.

And Steward did go to the professional whore, too—using his own five dollars, since his father declined to pay for it. He described the encounter with the girl in the neighboring town as a sad little experience…[which] took me a long time—and finally the girl herself had an orgasm. My own was brought about by thinking of [my friend] Carl.

The matter might have ended there, but Steward sneaked a look at his father’s diary a couple of weeks later. There, to his enormous shame, he read his father’s account of the situation, one which noted that the experience had, in his father’s words, cut my heart out. Much as Steward would have liked to discount both his father and his opinions, he could not deny his father’s great sorrow, shame, and embarrassment at the public revelation of his son’s homosexuality, for the facts were all too plain upon the page.

In a letter Steward wrote to Alfred Kinsey shortly after their first meeting in 1950—a year and a half after his father’s death by an overdose of amphetamines mixed with alcohol, and more than twenty-five years after being confronted by his father with the note to the traveling salesman—Steward wrote Kinsey, I guess the psychic trauma of my father’s rejection of me went much deeper than I realized.

He then added,

It was not until [a day after you took my sexual history] that [I] realize[d] what a deep and profound psychological need it [had] answered…Two or three times during [our] interview I found myself thinking: If only my father had been like this man! and instead of his profane Pilate’s gesture* regarding me, [he] had given me the sympathy and comprehension that you extended…[As a result of my meeting with you,] the great dry wasteland of my psyche, the bitterness, the unwanted feeling—all have [now] begun to change; I am conscious of great alterations somewhere within.

The note is telling, for it suggests that with the public revelation of his homosexuality, Steward felt that he had been cast off not only by his father, but also from his father’s religion—and with it, all that had up to that point made him secure in the world. But apart from Steward’s disconnection from both his father and his religion, there was a loss of something even more important: a loss of connection to truthfulness. Steward was, despite his playful love of duplicity, a person for whom truth was of primary importance. Even if he had felt no shame about his homosexuality, Steward must at least have been shamed by his own dishonesty. And of course, Steward had no one to blame for this dishonesty but himself. He lived in a world where the truth about his sexuality was simply not acceptable, and so, when pressed, he had done the only thing he could do: he lied.

Two of Steward’s aunts moved to Columbus in 1926, selling their share of the Woodsfield boardinghouse in order to buy and run a boardinghouse that was just a short walk from the Ohio State University campus. They did so for the express purpose of seeing Steward and his little sister, Virginia, through their college years at OSU, for they had resolved to provide their children with the best possible university education despite their extremely limited income. Taking his last year at a public high school in Columbus rather than in Woodsfield, Steward helped out at the new boardinghouse in whatever way he could; he also continued to write poetry and fiction, play jazz piano, and collect celebrity autographs and letters. Since many entertainers passed through Columbus on whistle-stop tours, he was now able to pursue them in person, simply by waiting outside their theater or else in the lobby of the town’s best hotel.

Steward was by now also having a good deal of casual sex, mostly with the undergraduate males with whom he shared his home. My aunts’ house on Seventeenth Avenue had about eleven rooms, Steward later recalled. Six of the bedrooms were rented to two boys each, making a full house of a dozen young men. Over the years I managed to have about half the population of the place—some reluctant, some returning again and again. Steward’s most remarkable sexual experience, however, happened as a result of his autograph-collecting* adventures, and took place in downtown Columbus.

Although Steward never mentioned the encounter in his published memoirs, he detailed its specifics in an interview he granted to a friend just four years before his death:

I had a friend at the best hotel in Columbus, the Deschler-Wallich…He called up one night and said, Somebody has registered here. I don’t know whether you’d be interested or not. His name is Rudolph Guglielmo [sic]. That was [Rudolph] Valentino’s real name, of course. And I said, Oh, my God, I’ll be down in a minute. That was July 24, 1926.

The great silent-film actor Rudolph Valentino was always assumed to be forcefully heterosexual, even while under attack by the popular press as a promoter of male effeminacy. Steward had long been in awe of him, for throughout the 1920s Valentino had been a top Hollywood star worshipped as a paragon of virility. Just six days before coming to Columbus, however, Valentino had been lambasted for his mannerisms in the Chicago Tribune, in what later became known as the Pink Powder Puffs incident. Steward later described it in his account of their meeting:

[Valentino] was returning from Chicago, where he had gone a second time to challenge the writer of that editorial that called him a powder puff, who never showed up [for the duel to which Valentino had challenged him]. He was coming back on the train, and I don’t know why he stopped in Columbus, but there he was, absolutely incognito, because he would have been mobbed otherwise. So I went down to the hotel, my autograph book in hand, and knocked on the door, and he signed it…[He had been showering and wore only a towel but] he took the book and sat down and signed it. For a long time [after], there was the imprint of his damp palm on the page [of the autograph book]. He stood up…and I was about to leave, and he said, Is there anything else you want? I’m very tired.

I said, "Yes, I’d like to have you." And then he really did smile…He reached over and pushed the door shut. I had it half open, my hand on the knob—I was about to exit—and he pushed the door shut with that hand, and with the other hand he undid his towel. And then he sat down on the edge of the bed.

Though pressed by his interviewer, Steward declined to give any further details of the sexual encounter.* But young Steward emerged from the hotel room not only with the autograph, but also with a swatch of Valentino’s pubic hair,* which he subsequently kept in a monstrance at his bedside until the end of his life.* The experience was all the more trenchant for Steward because within a month Valentino suddenly ruptured his appendix and died, aged thirty-one.

Though unable to discuss his encounter with high school friends, Steward memorialized this and other sexual experiences by keeping records and collecting memorabilia. Steward’s first sexual experience had taken place only two years before, but he already had a secret list of all his encounters that he had transcribed in coded notations, occasionally supplementing these notes with physical souvenirs that carried their own erotic charge. Through these collections of facts, figures, and objects, Steward was able to put the experiences into order, to consider their relative importance (or unimportance), and, essentially, to daydream about his own risk-taking sexual activities with a sense of both detachment and control. Through them he would enter a state of erotic reverie—one in which he saw himself not only as safe, secure, and very much at the center of his sexuality, but also as a daredevil, a risk taker, and a sexual hero—a young man both larger than life and impervious to its cruelties.

By the time he finished high school in 1927, Steward was eager to begin a new phase of exploring his sexuality, this time through writing:

For my entrance essay [for Ohio State University] I chose Walt Whitman as a topic, and let fly with all the accumulated but undigested wisdom—and none of the caution—of an eighteen-year-old who had read Havelock Ellis, and also through him investigated John Addington Symonds and found out about Horace Traubel* and Peter Doyle.* Moreover, instead of writing on Leaves of Grass in general, I chose the homosexual Calamus section in particular. I [even] quoted The Invert* (by Anomaly) on why inverts made such good nurses…

This amazing little essay I later learned landed in 1927 in the midst of a staidly closeted English department with the disruptive force of several pounds of TNT…

Paying his way through school as a part-time librarian, Steward took a BA with honors in 1931. As an undergraduate he helped organize student protests against the racial segregation of the fraternity system (despite having grown up in a segregated town, Steward maintained friendships with blacks throughout his life) and also against the presence of the ROTC on campus. He also participated in amateur theatricals, wrote poetry and prose for the school literary magazine and newspaper, and played in a jazz combo at school dances and mixers.

Steward found significant inspiration at OSU in a sympathetic mentor—a professor upon whom he would later model himself as both a teacher and a literary dandy. Clarence Clare Andrews, an elegant man of letters, had published several books, including the novel The Innocents of Paris (1928), which had been turned into a 1929 film starring Maurice Chevalier. He regularly summered in Europe and was a friend of Gertrude Stein and Alice Toklas; on one occasion he had even helped eject Hemingway (who was drunk) from their home. Always elegantly groomed, tie carefully knotted…[he was] the very model of a professor, Steward later wrote. "I inhaled him, I worshipped his intellect and understanding, and I patterned my teaching career around him."

While Andrews was homosexual, he was discreet about it, and partnered, and he wisely kept Steward at a careful arm’s length. "[When] I wrote a short novel (imitative of Death in Venice, I fear)…Andrews read it, and scolded me for my preoccupation with sex." Nonetheless Steward met a number of established literary figures through him, including William Butler Yeats.

Even while an undergraduate, Steward dabbled in various forms of literary bohemianism, for he had read all about bohemian life in Ben Hecht’s Count Bruga,* and he had joined a group of young people crafting similarly artistic lives for themselves in a tenement building at 31 East Long Street in downtown Columbus. Though far from Greenwich Village, these young artists and writers listened to Le Sacre du Printemps on the Victrola at their cocktail parties, and read all the latest art and literary magazines. The group included Steward’s best friend and classmate Marie Anderson, a stylish lesbian who ultimately left Columbus to become a Communist, and Bobbie Creighton, a worldly young prostitute with a substantial collection of literary erotica and pornography. According to Steward, Creighton gladly lent him copies of early poetry by Pound, the work of Joyce and Stein and e.e. cummings, the suppressed drawings of Felicien Robs,* [and] the work of J. K. Huysmans. Creighton’s collection of erotic books, poems, and pictures was profoundly important to Steward, for it described many varieties of sexual awareness—including homosexual ones—at a time when, according to the novelist Carl van Vechten, there was not a single English or American novel of the first rank that deal[t] with [homosexuality] save in a perfunctory or passing way. (In fact, her pornography collection fascinated him to the point of complete distraction, in a way he would later describe in his first novel, Angels on the Bough.) But by far the most important works that he found in her collection were the decadent early novels of Huysmans, for they were works upon which Steward would fashion his life.

As a slight but handsome young man now sporting a mildly outrageous pompadour and a racy pencil mustache, Steward had an easy enough time convincing young male undergraduates to have sex with him. He noted in his memoirs, I went to Columbus with the major purpose of bringing pleasure to others, mainly straight young men. He also observed that none of us was coy in those days…We all liked to experiment [and] we found the direct approach daring. In one instance, while fooling around in a frat house with an old friend from Woodsfield,* the two were discovered by another frat member. In order to help his friend save face, Steward then pleasured a number of other frat members—for among these young men, only those who performed oral sex were considered homosexual.*

Steward had been exploring his sexual attraction to boys in his own writings beginning at age fourteen,* and he continued to address the topic of homosexuality in his academic writings throughout his college and graduate school career. The question of how to discuss homosexuality would, in fact, be the central question of his writing life; not only would it preoccupy Steward during his early literary and academic career, but it would also be central to his later work as a diarist, sex researcher, and erotic author.

None of Steward’s academic writings on homosexuality ever achieved mainstream publication,* but his poems and short stories from the same period have survived, and in both the stories and the poems, sexuality is often the subject. He began publishing his romantic verses in the Columbus Dispatch starting at age eighteen, and by March 1930, his junior year, he had published a poem in the magazine Contemporary Verse. Benjamin Musser, the editor of that magazine, took a special interest in Steward, and eventually obtained a small yearly college stipend for him from the philanthropist Cora Smith Gould.

Musser (1889–1951) was a very minor poet, and he would eventually leave literary publishing for a religious vocation,* but at the time Steward met him in 1928, he was best known as the publisher of two small magazines, Contemporary Verse and JAPM: The Poetry Weekly.* Though closeted, Musser had written and privately published the anonymous homoerotic novel The Strange Confession of Monsieur Montcairn. Through marriage, meanwhile, he had become wealthy enough to set himself up as a publisher of new and emerging (young male) poets.

Steward met Musser at a poetry reading at Columbus’s Chittenden Hotel and later noted, "From that chance meeting (as Huysmans wrote in A Rebours*) sprang a mistrustful friendship that endured for several years." Musser, then in his forties, promptly became infatuated with Steward, and forthwith introduced him to a wider circle of poets and literary figures, including Harold Vinal, secretary of the Poetry Society of America.

Steward was himself an able poet. His Italian sonnet Virginia to Harlotta, written at age nineteen, presciently describes a consciousness divided between virtuous chastity and thankless promiscuity:

This is yours: to lie beside him all the night

And feel the steady heat come out from him;

The coolness of his hands, each slender limb

Made restless by the absence of the light…

To know the graceless touch, the never-quite-

Sufficient kiss of lip on lip, or breast,

And when the day comes, grey unwanted guest

To see love’s death, each in each other’s sight.

And this is mine: a solitary bed,

And I so still…unwarmed, untouched, unkissed,

With moonlight fingering flowers on my spread,

And moaning trees and crying winds and mist…

Weave me a spell, O bow-boy, so that he

Embracing her sends his caress to me!

In a sense, the poem serves as an emblem of Steward’s sexuality during his early years in academe, as he pined for fine young men who would never love him, while at the same time he had any number of vigorous, semianonymous encounters with others about whom he had few illusions, and who in return had few illusions about him. The form of the poem, meanwhile, shows Steward’s interest in the sonnets of Petrarch, on whom he would later publish an essay in the Sewanee Review.

Musser invited Steward to visit him in New York, and subsequently to a number of romantic getaways at his beach house in Margate, near Atlantic City. In his Bozart gossip column of March 1930, Musser gleefully noted, "Sam Steward made his very first visit to New York [this past month] and the greater thrill was mine in showing him around…we made New Year whoopee

Vous avez atteint la fin de cet aperçu. Inscrivez-vous pour en savoir plus !
Page 1 sur 1


Ce que les gens pensent de Secret Historian

9 évaluations / 9 Avis
Qu'avez-vous pensé ?
Évaluation : 0 sur 5 étoiles

Avis des lecteurs

  • (4/5)
    Compelling and depressing. Unsettling. An interesting portrait of an all-but-forgotten literary figure. Interestingly, I found the tattooing a little uncomfortable to read about; I had no idea I was so squeamish, but I was squirming during a couple of chapters.
  • (5/5)
    Fascinating biography of a gay man who kept track of all of his sexual partners throughout his life - including some notorious ones (Rock Hudson, Rudolph Valentino to name a couple). As a professor and then a tatoo artist and sex researcher, Steward had to choose between career and love - something that resonates with me since I was faced with a similar choice in my day. And since I grew up in a relatively conservative household [like Steward], my background did not provide any strategies for dealing with my homosexuality other than to live an [at least partially] closeted existence - something I have [since] rejected. Warning: this book is definitely *not* for the uninitiated (!).
  • (5/5)
    A personal game changer of a book for me as it offers a detailed look into what a long, complicated, and varied thing life as a weirdo can be.As Spring notes in the introduction it is in many ways "a story of obsession, isolation, and failure," so don't come looking for chicken soup for the soul. In fact, if you're not a queer, tattooed, and/or bdsm freak don't even bother reading it because you'll find little of interest, and even less that seems like "history" in the traditional sense.Final summation, read it. Then, track down as many Phil Andros novels as you can find.
  • (4/5)
    Exhaustive and thorough review of a man who lived several lives and recorded everything; especially his sexual encounters. This book is so well written and sourced that Steward's lives seem to coalesce. He was ahead of his time and helped usher in changes of morality by living authentically as he was.
  • (5/5)
    Drawing on the voluminous material left after Steward’s death—thanks to his habit of compulsively recording many aspects of his life, especially his sexual encounters—Spring has delivered the fullest account of this enthralling writer, professor, tattoo artists, and pornographer we are ever likely to have, and written one of the best books of the year. Using Steward’s life, Justin Spring has given us a vivid, in-depth look at gay life before Stonewall, when the “naiveté” of the mainstream about homosexuality allowed gays an odd kind of freedom to pursue “straight” men with impunity, while remaining outsiders in a world where they were not allowed to exist. Brilliantly navigating through the many lives and pseudonyms of Steward, Secret Historian is a remarkable work that shows Justin Spring to be as much of a master seducer as Steward himself. Writing in a compulsively readable style which perfectly complements its subject’s incredible story, he turns what could have easily become a sordid tale of compulsive sex, publishing disappointments, and near misses into a balanced, clear-eyed portrait of a fascinating, complex human being who was, “if nothing else, a man who dared to live his beliefs.
  • (3/5)
    Not my cup of tea, but provacative and well written.
  • (5/5)
    Biographer Justin Spring should be applauded for his exhaustive research, penetrating insight, and empathy in bringing the life of Sam Steward to a contemporary audience of readers. Spring knows the importance of interesting lives lived on the edge. An individual need not be famous to have a life worth writing about, and Steward's life was a fascinating collage of sex and artistic creativity - a most potent blend. Spring gives the various components of Steward's life equal treatment, and the reader while aware that sexual encounters were a very large and important part of Steward's life, never loses track of the fact that the man was a professor, a writer, and an artist. In fact, even his sexual life took on a creative bent as he found new ways to meet men and interesting ways to document them. In writing of Steward's life, Spring takes his readers through a complete history of gay life in America from the 1920s through the 1980s. As we follow Steward's sexual conquests and his various careers, we are also following gay lifestyles from the closeted and careful times to the breakaway and coming-out decade of the 1970s. In many ways using Steward's fascinating life as a way to trace gay history in America is a brilliant path for Spring to have taken. He uses Steward as the vehicle to present more gay and American history than we might expect from a biography of one man.Steward may not have been a household name, but he was very friendly with many famous people including Alfred Kinsey. Gertrude Stein, Alice B. Toklas, George Platt Lynes, and Thornton Wilder among others. For those who avoid biographies unless there are connections to fame, Secret Historian will not disappoint. And, in many cases, it should be noted that Steward's life was far more interesting that those of his more famous friends.One of the unique parts of the biography is the emphasis on Steward's time as a tattoo artist. While biographies of gay men, artists, and writers are plentiful, when was the last time anyone read a biography of a tattoo artist? Introducing us to the world of tattooing is an extra gift from Spring who has the admirable talent of being able to discover those with unique lifestyles and pick out the parts that are most interesting, bringing them alive to an audience who might not otherwise know or understand them.Congratulations must also go to the executor of Sam Steward's estate who may not have known what to do with all of Steward's papers and files, but kept them anyway. If he had not preserved them, Spring would not have had what he needed to research and write this very unusual and commendable biography. We can only hope that more individuals leading quiet but "other worldly" lives leave behind the depth of documentation that Steward left. Stories such as this need to be told, and Steward probably knew that in some way during his lifetime. If he were alive, he would have every right to be proud of Spring's book about his life behind the closed door as well as in front of it.
  • (5/5)
    Anyone interested in the history of homosexuality must read this book. Through his biography of Steward, Spring paints a vivid picture of homosexuality in America in the 20th century. It's much more than the story of a life pre and post Stonewall. The book documents a life pre and post World War II, MaCarthyism, the Kinsey Reports, AIDS, and Supreme Court decisions that made it possible for writers like Steward to publish and distribute their works.Steward completed his PhD at Ohio State University and wrote a critically acclaimed first novel in the 1920's. But, because he refused to self censor or camouflage homosexuality in his writings he was never able to publish much of anything until the late 1960s and early 1970s. Because of the minor success of the early novel he was befriended by notable writers of the day including Gertrude Stein, Alice B. Toklas, Thornton Wilder, and many others.His cataloging and documenting of his sexual encounters, starting in the 1920s, led to a long working and personal relationship with Alfred Kinsey and the Institute for Sex Research. (I learned more about Kinsey from reading this book than I ever knew before). I highly recommend this book to anyone interested in 20th century American history, history of homosexuality, sex, tattooing, writing and publishing.
  • (4/5)
    not for everyone but interesting man with an interesting if unusual life.